Up at night, reading her profound thoughts she impressed some time ago
She is a beautiful thinker, easy and effortless. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is.
I know she doubts her talents. I don't even know how she let me into her universe.
A moth to a flame, I'm just dancing around her fire. It sizzles. Never burnt. So I learnt. Timid to engage her passion, for it might fizzle.
The pain she expresses is a mask for joy that's yearning to be uncovered. She feels dead when she is so alive, says pain has numbed her. Immune to hurt. Desensitized to heartbreak. Potential beauty untapped. How could I spark her to self? Her mind overwhelms me. Lost, she's flame. I'm just a moth.
They say women who live in their heads, have an unoccupied heart for a big man to fill up. I feel small. Does she even notice my existence?
She is too good for this pretentious world. So she plays small to fit in. A goddess that assimilated pain so she can relate to mere mortal souls . The beauty that feigned ugliness.
I don't even write like this, I read her mind. Up late nights. Characters in her pages. Figment of my imagination?
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